


my mind is blind to everything but you

by katsumi



Series: a world that's entirely our own [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, M/M, Minor Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-16 13:53:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10572642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katsumi/pseuds/katsumi
Summary: Monty's idea to make an even more effective love potion involves an after-dark trip to the Forbidden Forest. Miller is, to put it lightly, not on board. [Hogwarts AU]





	

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [can't control my feelings, can't control my thoughts](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10270448). Might be helpful to read that one first, but the basic gist is: Jasper accidentally gives Clarke a love potion which makes everyone she touches that day fall in love with her. Predictably, Bellamy spends the day acting perfectly normal because he is already in love with her.
> 
> Obligatory house rundown:
> 
> Gryffindor: Bellamy, Jasper  
> Ravenclaw: Monty, Raven  
> Slytherin: Miller, Clarke

****Of course Clarke would accidentally accept a love potion while Miller isn’t around to stop her. Typical.

If he were there, he'd get her to think about her choices for _two seconds_ and none of this disaster would even happen. But no, while Clarke is throwing caution to the wind and accepting unlabled potions without question, Miller’s some two hundred feet off the ground, clenching his broom and trying as hard as he can to keep from disemboweling Murphy mid-air.

It would be a nice change of pace if Murphy would decide to flirt with their new Chaser by, say, _speaking words to her_ instead of skulking around like an asshole and “accidentally” slamming his own teammates with his bat out of, what, mismanaged hormones? This is not what Miller signed up for when he became Captain.

He’s never been so glad to call an end to practice. He’s stalking off the pitch, all set to tear into Murphy about how Emori’s a way better chaser than Murphy is a beater so if he can’t just _keep his fucking shit together—_

And then, out of nowhere, there’s Monty.

He’s standing by the gate clutching an enormous textbook to his chest, all bright smile and wind-tousled hair, and Miller feels all the fury rush straight out of his body like it’s been spelled away.

It’s not that Miller’s thoroughly unprepared to see him. He’d spotted the group of them from the air, sprawled out along hill—Clarke’s blonde hair glimmering bright in the sunshine, resting on what had to be Bellamy’s lap, and Monty by her side. Monty should be harder to discern from that far away, but Miller could tell. He’s developed some bizarre and frankly unsettling sixth sense that involves being hyper-aware of where Monty is at any given moment.

Still, it’s something of a shock to see Monty standing here while the rest of the Slytherin team files off the pitch; he’s clearly waiting for Miller, and that knowledge does strange things to Miller’s stomach.

“Nice practice,” says Monty, as Miller approaches. “Real good, uh—flying.”

“Thanks,” says Miller, as dry as he can manage. (There’s something about Monty that makes it hard for Miller to maintain his standard level of sarcasm, which is vaguely worrying.) “Means a lot, coming from someone with your expertise.”

Monty laughs. “Shut up. I can’t be good at everything, that would just be unfair.”

“True. I’ve seen you fly. It’s not in your wheelhouse.”

In the fall of their third year, Miller had gotten fed up with Clarke’s refusal to learn how to play quidditch—such a naturally aggressive person would clearly be right at home on the pitch—and had spent a whole series of afternoons attempting to teach her. She’d brought Monty and Raven along for a few sessions, insisting that Miller was “torturing her” and she “needed witnesses” _—please_ as if—and Miller still remembers the look on Monty’s face when he’d finally gotten his broom off the ground that first time: awed smile, flushed cheeks, so fucking bright.

Three years later, and that smile still works a number on his insides. It’s more than a little pathetic.

“Hey,” Monty protests. “I may not play the game, but at least I’m putting in an effort to learn more about the rules to make watching it less tedious.”

Miller lifts an eyebrow. “Are you expecting me to thank you? You just called my sport tedious.”

Monty clutches the book a little tighter to his chest, wrinkles his nose as he grins.

“Well I basically only watch it for you,” he says, simple. “So, yeah. A thank you wouldn’t hurt.”

It takes entirely too long for Miller’s heart to start beating again.

“What?” he manages.

Monty’s close enough to bump his elbow against Miller’s, and that simple touch really shouldn’t make his entire left side tingle.

“You know Clarke basically roots for Bellamy now,” says Monty. “In complete defiance of house loyalty. So someone’s gotta root for you. Might as well be me.”

“That’s also in defiance of house loyalty,” Miller points out, trying to keep his voice as even as possible as he nods to the Ravenclaw tie that’s distractingly loose around Monty’s neck.

Monty shrugs. “Are you this grouchy with all your fans?”

“I’m not grouchy.”

“You’re like the definition of grouchy.”

“I am not.”

“Proving my point with every word.” Monty quirks his head towards the castle. “C’mon, let’s go eat. I’m starving.”

He’s already turning away, clearly expecting that Miller will follow him. Which of course Miller does without a second thought, swinging his broom over his shoulder. (He can find Murphy later. Whatever.)

“You could have eaten earlier,” Miller points out. “They started serving food like an hour ago.”

“I was waiting for you to finish practice.”

Miller really should just let that go. But he can’t help himself.

“Why?”

For just a second, he thinks he sees Monty bite at his lip. But then whatever flash of hesitation is gone, replaced by that same easy smile, that gentle assurance.

“Because I’m not a dick?” Monty offers.

Miller laughs. Even as that brief flutter of hope stills in his chest.

“You’re not,” he agrees. “I would know. Takes one to know one.”

 

* * *

 

Miller eats dinner that night squeezed in between Monty and Clarke at the Ravenclaw table, listening to Bellamy and Raven argue about the best spell for quickly drying clothes and trying to ignore the firm weight of Monty’s thigh against his.

Afterwards, on the way down to the dungeons, Clarke slings an arm around his shoulder—which he hates, and she _knows_ he hates—and leans in close, conspiratorial.

“But seriously, you’re going to kick Bellamy’s ass when we play Gryffindor, right? I want him to suffer.”

“You really don’t.” He could shake her off, but it’s been over ten years; he’s used to it by now. Plus it’s always amusing the way she has to stand on her tiptoes to do it now.

“Gryffindor can’t be allowed to win the cup, Miller. If they win even after losing Roan? God, Bellamy will be so smug.”

“So you want me to aim a bludger straight at his head then, got it.”

She frowns. “I didn’t say—”

“For the love of god, Griffin, I was joking. I’m not going to deadass murder my best friend.”

“Good. Monty thinks you’re better off letting Murphy go pure rage while you focus on tracking and blocking the opposing team’s beaters, anyway.”

Miller blinks. “He does?” This is a remarkably sophisticated strategy for someone who once spent an entire Hufflepuff/Gryffindor game trying to transfigure Jasper’s shoelaces into worms.

“Yeah.” Clarke is grinning. Miller can just tell. “It’s weird, because I could have sworn he hated quidditch.”

Miller swallows.

“So,” he says, knowing this will be a sufficient distraction strategy, “how far behind on the Defense Against the Dark Arts essay are you?”

Sure enough, Clarke drops her arm with a beleaguered groan. “Don’t remind me.”

“I only have one more inch.”

“Fuck you.”

“Language.”

_Monty finished his three days ago_ , a voice in Miller’s brain reminds him, unhelpfully.

He pushes the voice aside. He’s gotten pretty good at doing that, now. Three full years of his heart losing its shit every time Monty walks in the room has given him plenty of practice.

 

* * *

 

Of course Clarke would accidentally _take_ a love potion when he isn’t around to stop her, too. She’s trying to fucking kill him.

 

* * *

 

The potion makes it such that everyone Clarke touches for the whole fucking day becomes instantly attracted to her. And Clarke has to go and touch _basically everyone,_  including Miller, leading to a tremendously uncomfortable few hours he'd like nothing more than to forget.The only good thing to come out of this whole thing is that Bellamy acts no differently after being touched (no shit) because he is (of course) already attracted to Clarke. So at least that's one problem solved.

After he’s finally managed to get everything sorted out—and seriously, why the fuck is it his job to handle this shit?—Miller has only one thing on his mind: Monty.

Monty, who—along with everyone else Clarke touched that day—spent hours thinking about what it would be like to kiss Clarke. Which is really fucking weird. Not quite as weird as the fact that Miller spent a portion of _his_ day thinking about what it would be like to kiss Clarke (he’s trying really fucking hard to scrub that from his brain) but like, almost as weird.

He never specified where he’d meet Monty, exactly, only that he’d _find him later_. Miller doesn’t think too much about why he heads immediately for the stairwell in the north-most tower, to the little balcony that juts out between the third and fourth floors, closed off from the rest of the castle by a wrought-iron door. Just because he considers it their space—flush with memories of afternoons spread out on their stomachs, textbooks piled high around them, Monty’s infuriating cat dozing on Miller’s legs—doesn’t mean Monty thinks the same.

But when he arrives, there’s Monty: sitting cross legged in the corner, fidgeting with his tie. He looks up as Miller shuts the door behind him, and when he grins, Miller’s whole stomach flips over on itself.

“Hey,” says Monty. “Chocolate frog?”

“No. Shut up.”

Monty blinks.

“Sorry,” says Miller, huffing. “I’m still on edge.”

Monty pats the floor beside him, and Miller has no choice but to shuffle over and sit.

“Jasper told me,” says Monty. “About accidentally giving Clarke a love potion instead of the potion for focus.”

“I know he’s your best friend. But I might murder him.”

Monty just laughs. “Honestly, that’s fair. Although you know, it’s probably my fault, too. I usually keep a closer eye on him and the stuff he makes.”

“This isn’t on you,” says Miller, fast. “It’s not your job to monitor him.”

“I know,” says Monty, even though it doesn’t seem like this is something Monty knows at all. “I just feel bad. If I had been less distracted by your quidditch practice, I might have put a stop to all this before it happened and you wouldn’t have had to, you know. Feel all tingly around Clarke.”

Miller shudders. “Let’s never talk about that again.”

“It was weird, right?”

“What did I _just_ say?”

“Like Clarke is pretty, but that was such a strange feeling, like my brain was _shouting_ at me about how pretty she was. I should have realized something was up. My brain’s never done that before.”

“About Clarke?” Miller asks, before he can stop himself.

Monty looks down at his hands. “About anyone. That’s not...that didn’t feel anything like what I feel when I, well. You know.”

Miller leans his head back against the stone, shuts his eyes.  “Yeah. I know.”

The glittery surge beneath his skin when Clarke had touched him had chemical, dizzying, like someone had set off strobe lights in his brain. It doesn’t feel like that with Monty. When Monty touches him, the world stands still.

“I wonder why the potion didn’t work the way Jasper intended,” Monty muses.

“Monty.”

“I’m just saying, he’s usually pretty good at making sure—”

“What part of ‘never talking about it’ did you not understand?”

Monty knocks his shoulder with Miller’s. “Oh, lighten up. It’s over now.”

“Thank fucking god.”

Monty laughs again, bright, and Miller—eyes still closed—lets himself smile at the sound.

 

* * *

 

So aside from the nightmare-inducing horror show of having to feel attraction to Clarke Griffin, the whole situation resolves itself pretty well. It at least finally gets Clarke to recognize that Bellamy has in fact been making heart eyes at her—Miller’s been saying this for _months_ , but whatever—and honestly, if it helped those two idiots figure out their shit, Miller can’t even stay that mad. The potion gets forgotten, Bellamy and Clarke start holding hands in the hallways, Miller makes fun of them, and life proceeds on.

That is, until the following weekend at Hogsmeade when Monty makes it clear he’s unable to let some things go.

“I was thinking,” he says, sliding into the booth beside Miller, “about the love potion.”

It’s not as crowded as it often is in the Three Broomsticks, probably because it’s so damn nice out and most of the kids are off enjoying the sunshine. But still, there are _people_ here. Miller glances around, then glares at Monty.

“You promised you’d stop talking about that.”

Monty cups his mug of butterbeer, grinning. “I actually didn’t _promise_ anything. I was careful about that.”

“What about the potion?” asks Jasper, from across the booth. Even Raven leans forward, eyebrows raised.

“I think I figured out why it didn’t work,” Monty says.

“Oh, it _worked_ ,” says Raven, cheerily taking a swig of firewhiskey. “I can confirm it makes you want to kiss the living daylights out of somebody.”

“Not that part,” says Monty. “It was supposed to affect only one person, right? Why didn’t _that_ work?”

Jasper frowns. “Dunno. Haven’t thought about it.”

“What did you use as a binding agent?”

“Figglysnout, why?” Jasper’s eyes widen. “Wait, do you think—”

“Yeah,” Monty says, leaning forward excitedly. “It must have reacted with the—”

“With the silverclaw, yeah!” Jasper is beaming. “Oh, shit, are you thinking—”

“I bet it would work!”

“Holy crap!”

Raven throws Miller a look. “You getting any of this?”

Miller just rolls his eyes.

“Sorry,” says Monty, turning to Miller with a grin. “It’s just—it’s perfect. He used the wrong plant as a binding agent. And I know exactly which plant he should use instead.”

“Gringlepus!” Jasper exclaims. “Figglysnout’s purple, foul-smelling cousin. Don’t know why I didn’t think of that.”

“Maybe because gringlepus is extremely rare?” says Raven, though even she sounds impressed. “Where would you even find it?”

Monty gives this little half-shoulder shrug, the kind he gives when he’s trying to play off how big a deal something is. “Well. I’m pretty sure there’s some in the Forbidden Forest.”

“No,” says Miller, immediately.

“Yes!” Jasper whoops. “That’s my boy!”

_“No,”_ Miller repeats, twisting in his seat to glare at Monty. “Don’t even think about it.”

“But it would _work_!” Monty insists.

“You’re not going into the Forbidden Forest,” says Miller, rubbing his forehead. “Do you know how dangerous it is in there?”

“Well yeah,” says Monty, reasonably. “It was bad last time, sure. But as you recall, those were extenuating circumstances.”

“Bellamy was _impaled._ ”

Monty winces. “Yeah, but like... _barely.”_

In the fall of their fifth year, Bellamy’s sister Octavia—a sharp-tongued third-year Gryffindor—had gotten into some kind of skirmish with her classmates (Miller never really cared about the details) that had ended with her running off into the woods and befriending a bunch of the centaurs. And of course Bellamy had flipped a shit, which meant Clarke had flipped a shit, and for a while things were so bad that even Miller had been dangerously close to flipping a shit. They’d roped in Monty, Jasper, and Raven to help organize this covert rescue mission in the dead of night, which understandably the centaurs took as an act of aggression, and everything went to hell pretty fast.

Sure, it had been the closest Miller’s come to actually experiencing what it would be like to one day become an auror. But that doesn’t mean he wants to relive the experience of standing wand outstretched in front of Clarke and Monty, heart in his throat, the only barrier between them and a swarm of sharp hooves.

Not now, not ever, and especially not over something like this.

“Come on, Raven,” says Miller, “back me up, here.”

Raven cocks her head, glancing between Monty and Jasper.

“Well,” she says, slowly. “I mean, it probably _would_ work.”

Miller groans. Jasper slams his palm down onto the table with a cheer, throwing his other arm around Raven’s shoulders. She shrugs it off.

“But seriously, Jasper,” she says, “even if you can limit the potion to only affecting one person, it’s still an artificial state of attraction. It’s not like it’s actually going to make Maya fall in love with you.”

Jasper opens his mouth, presumably to protest, but Monty cuts him off.

“But it’s good for more than that! Think about what happened with Bellamy and Clarke.”

Bellamy and Clarke, who are noticeably absent from this gathering because they’re together, now, and therefore “want to hang out alone sometimes god Miller stop bothering me.” (Clarke’s words.)

Raven nods, piecing it together. “It doesn’t work with pre-existing attraction.”

“Exactly. If we could tweak the formula, we could make it less destructive but keep the part where you can—” Monty looks down, runs his thumb along the side of his mug. “You know. Figure out if someone likes you.”

Miller glances at Monty, but Monty doesn’t look up.

“Oh my god,” says Jasper, with dawning realization. “I could figure out what’s going on with Maya _and_ not have to risk Miller falling temporarily in love with me. Ouch! Dude, Miller, did you just kick me?”

“You’re not going into the Forbidden Forest so you can make a love potion,” says Miller, through clenched teeth. “I can’t believe I have to repeat this, but just in case you didn’t hear me before: _you’re not going into the Forbidden Forest so you can make a love potion.”_

“Even if it would work,” adds Raven, unhelpfully.

“Monty—” Miller warns.

“Okay, okay,” says Monty, giving a smile that strikes Miller as falsely bright. “I get it. Stop worrying.”

_Impossible_ , Miller thinks. But he just settles back in his seat, gives a silent nod.

Raven deftly switches the subject to debating what Clarke and Bellamy are doing on their date—Jasper’s convinced he’s buying her chocolate; Raven’s convinced they’re going at it in an alleyway; Miller suspects it's somewhere in between. For a while, Miller lets himself forget about the knot of tension in his neck that always forms when Monty’s about to do something brilliant but reckless.

But then, as they’re walking back, Monty falls into step beside him and says, all casual: “The Forbidden Forest isn’t _that_ bad, you know.”

Miller stops dead in his tracks.

“Monty,” he nearly growls. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Monty throws a glance at the group ahead of them, but then he stops, too. The rest continue on without noticing; Raven with her arm looped around Clarke’s shoulders, and Jasper attempting to loop his around Bellamy’s only to keep stumbling sideways and forcing Bellamy to catch him before he faceplants in the dirt.

Monty turns to Miller, frowning. “We’ve gone in before, you know. Jasper and I aren’t exactly strangers to the forest. What about the time second year when we found that massive horned beetle? I’m pretty sure you told me that was, and I quote, ‘way cool.’”

“I was twelve,” Miller grits out. “And also an asshole. Plus, I barely knew you then.”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“Monty." He's on the verge of panic, now. "Just—look, you and Jasper are always getting yourselves into trouble.”

Monty eyes him, careful. “I thought you liked trouble. Who was it who stole the headmaster’s robes third year, me or you?”

Miller groans. He steps forward, tugs just a tad on the blue and bronze scarf wrapped around Monty’s neck. “Me. But the biggest threat there was that my Dad would find out, not that I would get eaten.”

Monty smiles, all dimpled cheeks. “I’m not going to get eaten.”

“You’re right, you’re not. Because you’re not going to go into the forest by yourself.”

“I’d be with Jasper,” Monty points out.

“Monty.”

“Fine, point taken.”

Monty starts walking, and so Miller does, too, eager to draw this conversation to a close. He’s actually debating the merits of swinging his arm around Monty’s shoulders like the idiots walking ahead of them—would that come across as affectionate or creepy?—when Monty clears his throat.

“Can I ask what this is about?”

“Hm?”

“Your, you know.” Monty scratches his head. “Your sudden surge of responsibility.”

Miller looks deliberately ahead to where Jasper is attempting to crawl his way onto Bellamy’s back.

“I’m always responsible,” says Miller.

Monty snorts.

“I just don’t want you—” Miller swallows. “I don’t want either of you to get stuck in a bad situation. Especially not for something as fucking stupid as a love potion.”

Monty nods, absent, like he’s lost in thought.

“Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”

 

* * *

 

That should be that.

But then the next weekend, Miller’s spread out on the grass beside the lake trying to focus on his charms homework when Clarke says, offhand, “Have either of you heard of gringlepus?”

Miller growls into his textbook, loud enough that Bellamy reaches over and pats his head.

“Apparently Miller has,” he says.

“What did Monty do?” Miller asks, rolling onto his back and pushing himself closer, until he’s leaning back on Bellamy’s thigh.

His head clonks lightly against Clarke’s, who’s been pretending to study arithmancy (but has actually been napping on and off) on Bellamy’s other thigh. She reaches up over her head and tries to swat him away, though there’s not much heat to it.

“How do you know he did something?” she asks.

“What did Monty do?” Miller repeats.

Bellamy grins down at him, leaning back against the tree. “Touchy, Miller.”

“Miller’s always touchy,” says Clarke.

“I hate both of you,” Miller grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest. “I thought when you two finally got your shit together you’d go off by yourselves and leave me the hell alone.”

“And miss out on this face?” Clarke asks, reaching back in an attempt to smush Miller’s cheeks. Bellamy grabs her wrists mid-air, laughing.

“Don’t poke him,” he chides, threading his fingers between hers. “He bites.”

“This is cute and all,” says Miller, “but no one is answering my question.”

“About Monty, right.” Clarke sighs. “Look, it’s nothing, really. He kept muttering about gringlepus in the library earlier, and I couldn’t figure out where I’ve heard the name.”

“Oh, come _on_ ,” Miller mutters. “He said he was going to drop that.”

“What?”

“Gringlepus is a plant that does something something plant-like.”

“Thanks, Miller,” says Bellamy. “That’s helpful.”

“Whatever, I don’t know the specifics. But I _do_ know that he thinks it’ll help him make a love potion that only affects the first person the taker touches, not everyone in the goddamn world.”

Bellamy blinks down at him, his glasses sliding precariously down his nose.

“I thought Jasper was behind the love potion?”

“Yeah,” says Miller, “but you know Monty. He can’t turn his back on an unsolved problem.”

“He is cute that way,” Clarke adds, probably just to needle him. ( _Definitely_ just to needle him.)

“Shut up,” Miller growls, “you don’t get it. Gringlepus is apparently super rare, but you know where you can find some? The Forbidden Fucking Forest.”

There’s a long pause. Then Bellamy sighs, pushes his glasses up his nose.

“Yikes.”

“Seriously?” Miller grunts. “That’s what you’re going with? _Yikes?_ You guys are _prefects_.”

“What do you expect us to do, Miller?” Clarke asks. “Hate to break it to you, but Monty and Jasper are pretty damn good at sneaking out of the castle. If they want to go hunt down some gringlepus, there’s not a whole lot we can do to stop them besides take away house points when they get back.”

“I mean,” offers Bellamy, “I guess I could sit in the Gryffindor common room and intercept Jasper. But then—”

“Monty would go alone,” Miller finishes. “Even worse. You guys are no fucking help.” He sits up, throws his arms overhead to stretch. When he looks back over his shoulder, both Bellamy and Clarke are staring at him with what looks like mild pity.

“I can try talking to him?” Clarke suggests.

“Nah,” says Miller. “I don’t want him to think I told on him to the authorities, like he’s some kid.”

Clarke bites her lip. “We’re his friends too. Look, if it helps: they’re smart, quick on their feet. They know what they’re doing.”

“I know,” Miller sighs. “Just—let me handle this one.”

Bellamy nods, then immediately grins. “Relying on Miller’s people skills. Who’d have thought it would come to this.”

“Not his people skills,” says Clarke. “His _Monty_ skills. Different animal.”

“You both suck,” says Miller, pushing to his feet. “I’m leaving now so you can make out in peace. You’re welcome.”

“Thank god,” Clarke says. But then her brows quickly furrow. “Seriously, good luck, okay?”

“Don’t yell at him,” adds Bellamy. “Most people don’t like that.”

“Yeah! Use your indoor voice, Miller!” Clarke shouts.

Miller throws up his hand in goodbye and stalks back up the hill.

 

* * *

 

He checks the library first, then the Great Hall, then the courtyard. Nothing.

By the time he’s climbed all the stairs to the Astronomy Tower he’s a little winded and a little ticked off. But he’s rewarded by the sight of Monty spread out on his stomach next to Raven, the two of them hunched over a comically long scroll.

“Reyes,” Miller says, stepping out onto the landing. “Why do you always insist on studying someplace you can only reach by climbing thirty fucking flights of stairs?”

The two look up in unison, eyes wide. Monty’s expression quickly transforms to delight; Raven’s, to something closer to annoyance.

“To get away from you,” she says, arching one perfect eyebrow.

“Because she likes the breeze,” Monty translates. “And the stars, when they’re out.”

“And the weak of heart don’t bother walking up all the stairs,” adds Raven.

Monty nods. “Raven doesn’t tolerate the weak of heart.”

“Well, I just walked up all the stairs,” says Miller, hands on his hips. “Does that buy me a favor?”

“No,” says Raven, at the same time as Monty says, “What favor?”

“I need to talk to Monty,” says Miller. “Alone.”

Monty’s smile falters. Raven just stares at Miller, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

“We’re working here, Miller.”

Monty lays his hand on her forearm, light. “Mind if I take five?”

Raven looks at him, then back at Miller. “You want to be able to levitate, Miller? Hover over the ground for hours at a time, using only one simple spell?”

“Is that what you’re trying to do?”

“It’s what we _will_ do,” Raven corrects, grinning. “If you don’t keep him too long.”

She pushes to her feet in one quick, elegant motion, and Monty scrambles to follow her.

“Wait, Raven,” he says, “you don’t need to leave. We can just—”

“It’s fine,” says Raven, ruffling Monty’s hair. “I told Jackson I’d help him with Transfiguration homework anyways. Meet me in the common room later?”

“Yeah,” says Monty, nodding. “Okay.”

Raven gives Miller what is probably an affectionate punch to the shoulder as she passes—it’s still harder than he thinks strictly necessary, but whatever—and then disappears down the stairs. Monty smiles at Miller, hair still askew, his white uniform shirt all wrinkled from hours lying on the ground. Miller’s whole stupid heart starts dancing against his ribs.

“What’s up?” Monty asks, as Miller steps closer.

“Gringlepus,” says Miller. Might as well cut to the chase.

Monty blinks. His face falls.

“I’m not spying on you, or whatever,” says Miller, before Monty can say anything. “I just—heard you might still be looking into it.”

Monty crosses his arms over his chest. “I might be, yeah.”

“And I wanted to remind you,” says Miller, “how stupid it would be to go into the Forbidden Forest just to make a love potion.”

If it means keeping Monty out of a place with a proven track record of _kids getting impaled_ , then Miller doesn’t care if he pisses Monty off in the process. But still, it doesn’t feel great to see Monty’s eyes narrow at him like that.

“You used to be on board with all the stuff Jasper and I did,” Monty says, flat. “You were the one who egged us on to figure out the glitter fireworks.”

“Because the biggest danger there was that Jasper would singe his eyebrows off again,” Miller counters. “Oh, and also, covering Jaha’s office in glitter for a week was a whole lot more valuable than anything a love potion could possibly do.”

“That’s not true!” says Monty, stepping forward. “Think about it. What if there was a simple way to figure out whether your feelings were reciprocated? It wouldn’t be anything as heavy or dangerous as veritaserum, with a short application time. You would just touch their shoulder and you’d _know._ ”

“Or you could just _ask them,”_ Miller snaps.

Hurt flashes across Monty’s face, so fast Miller almost misses it. Monty looks down to his sneakers, wrinkles his nose.

“That’s not easy to do,” he says, quiet. “Not for everyone.”

Miller swallows. His chest is tight, palms curled to fists. He takes a step forward.

“Monty.”

Monty looks up, eyes soft and nervous.

“Why do you care so much about this?” he asks.

There’s the answer he should give: _I don’t want you to get in trouble_. But the real answer wins out in the end.

“I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Yeah, but—” Monty bites his lip. “Why are you so worried?”

Miller almost laughs. “I’m always worried.”

“No, you’re not. You never stress about grades, you don’t freak out if Bellamy doesn’t owl you over the summer, you were like the only one of us who kept your cool that time a dragon crashed that quidditch match—”

“About you,” Miller clarifies, sharp. “I’m always worried _about you_.”

Monty blinks. “Oh.”

The silence that follows seems to last a hundred thousand years. Miller tries to think of something to say, some way to walk back that statement, but his mind is blank.

“Is that—” Monty tries. “Is that because you don’t trust I can handle myself?”

Miller scrubs a hand over his face. “Monty, _no._ ”

“Then—”

“Monty.” Miller’s not sure when he moved so close, but Monty’s right in front of him now, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Look. I don’t want you to go into the forest. But if you do, can you just promise me something?”

The line of tension in Monty’s shoulders eases. “Promise what?”

“Tell me when you’re going,” says Miller, “so I can come with you.”

Monty’s eyes widen in surprise. Then he ducks his head, fast.

“You’re not just going to tell Bellamy and Clarke so that they can catch me first?”

“Nope. I promise.”

“Okay,” says Monty, soft. “Then I promise, too.”

Miller’s struck by the sudden and overwhelming urge to reach out and run his fingers down the edge of Monty’s jaw, to tip his chin up so that he’s looking at him in the eye.

He doesn’t, of course. But he wants to.

 

* * *

 

For a few days, it seems like the whole thing might be over. Monty doesn’t mention the gringlepus, and Miller doesn’t ask.

But then one night after dinner, while he and Bellamy are practicing one-on-one quidditch drills on the pitch, Miller looks down and sees Monty standing by the goal post, waving up at him.

Miller stops the quaffle mid-throw.

“That was graceful,” Bellamy shouts, hovering in the center of the ring. “Come on, Miller! Give me something to work with!”

Quidditch drills with Bellamy is always something of a trip, since beaters and keepers don’t interact a whole lot in the course of a game. Their drills usually involve a half hour of Miller hurling bludgers at Bellamy (who dodges them), followed by a half hour of Miller hurling quaffles at Bellamy (who blocks them). They briefly tried to combine the two—Miller trying to whack bludgers through the goals—but Clarke nixed the idea on account that Bellamy kept showing up to breakfast the next day pockmarked head to toe with purple bruises.

“Sorry man,” says Miller, gesturing down towards the ground. “I think I’ve gotta take off early.”

Bellamy follows his eyeline, then grins. “I see how it is.”

“No you don’t,” says Miller, starting to descend. “You’re the worst.”

“Say hi for me!”

Miller dismounts more clumsily than he’d like, but his throat his tight, his heart already beating a tad faster. _This is it_ , he thinks. _He wants to go to the forest._

“Hey Miller,” says Monty. He’s wearing a button-down red sweater, a black knit hat pulled down low over his ears. If Miller weren’t so preoccupied with the fact that he might be preparing to stride off into the place that's spawned a thousand nightmares, he’d be distracted by how absurdly cute this boy is.

“Is it time?” Miller asks, without a beat.

Monty winces. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

“Where’s Jasper?”

Monty shrugs, stilted. “Detention, I think. Can you, uh—mind following me?”

Miller nods.

After a brief stop to drop his broom off in the team room, Monty leads Miller away from the pitch. When they reach the fork and Monty veers left—away from the castle, towards the woods—Miller’s stomach sinks. But he follows, silent. When they get to the forest he'll take the lead, keep Monty behind him, but for now, this is okay.

Monty, who normally likes to fill silences with gentle questions, stays silent, too.

They’re almost at the edge of the forest when Monty stops abruptly, turns around. Miller glances over his shoulder, wondering if they’ve been spotted by a professor or something, but there’s no one there. When he turns back, Monty’s fixed him with this odd, nervous look.

“Okay,” says Monty—his voice is high and tight. “Here’s the thing.”

“Not making me feel better about this, Monty.”

“Just hear me out.” Monty takes a deep breath, releases it slowly. “So. I’m not giving up on the gringlepus. I still think it would work, and I _know_ there’s some in there, but apparently there’s a guy in Albania who’s family friends with Raven and has an in with a peddler so I can always go that route if need be.”

“Uh,” says Miller. “What?”

“The potion is valuable,” Monty says, firm. “Like there are kinks to work out for sure, but this is one of the first ones Jasper’s come up with that could have a real market. I just—that’s important, okay?”

“Okay? Look, Monty, I—”

“But what you said before makes sense,” Monty continues, like this is a speech he practiced and can’t finish if he’s interrupted. “The forest is dangerous, and I should exhaust all the other options first. And...and you’re right, if you want to figure out if someone likes you, you can just ask.”

“Monty.” Miller takes a step forward. Monty’s hand is shaking with something that looks like fear, and he can’t figure out why. “What’s going on?”

“I like you,” says Monty, so fast the words almost run together. “I like you, and I’ve been too nervous to say anything about it, so I was kind of into the concept of a potion that could set the record straight without my having to give you an embarrassing speech like...well, like the one I’m giving you right now.”

The whole world stills. Miller’s ears are ringing.

“You like me?” he manages.

“Yeah?” Monty attempts a smile; it comes out crooked. “Which—I get it if that’s weird. I know we’ve been friends for a long time, and same friend group stuff can get complicated, but—”

“Fuck that,” says Miller. “You _like_ me?”

Monty lets out a quick, ragged breath. “Well, I—yes. A lot, actually.”

Miller doesn’t think. He just strides forward, curves his hand around Monty’s jaw, and kisses him—firm and rough and way too much for the first damn kiss but he can’t help it, he can’t. He feels Monty’s hands grip the sides of his shirt like he’s hanging on for life.

Miller’s grinning when he pulls away. Flat out fucking _grinning_ , which he usually tries to keep a hold on, but who the hell cares.

“So,” he says, swiping his thumb along Monty’s cheek, “I take it we’re not going on a death mission to the forest right now?”

“Not if you don’t want to,” Monty mumbles. He’s looking at Miller like he can’t quite believe Miller exists, his lips parted and pink from where Miller kissed him. And fuck it, Miller can’t stop himself from leaning in and kissing him all over again.

“I don’t want to,” he says, when he finally pulls away. “Go into the forest, that is. Let’s not.”

Monty smiles. “Okay. Not today, anyway.”

Miller groans, cupping both cheeks, now. “Monty.”

“We’ll save it for another time!” Monty chirps.

“You’re killing me.”

“If it helps,” Monty offers, “my, as you call it, ‘obsessive need to get myself into trouble’ means I have a pretty detailed understanding of all the castle’s secret passageways. I also do not share Clarke’s desire to always be back in the common room before curfew.”

Miller smirks, already leaning back in.

“I knew I liked you for a reason.”

 

* * *

 

A few weeks later, Slytherin beats Gryffindor in their biggest match of the season. Which doesn’t mean much—it’s not like it predicts who’ll take the cup or anything—but it still feels fucking _good_.

Miller’s barely managed to congratulate his teammates when Bellamy launches himself into his arms, laughing and slapping his back and yelling gibberish about demanding a recount. A small part of Miller wonders whether he should really be hugging the opposing team’s keeper so vigorously immediately post-match, but for the most part, Miller doesn’t fucking care.

As soon as Bellamy pulls away, there’s Clarke: appearing as if from nowhere and throwing her arms immediately around Miller’s neck.

“Suck it, Bellamy!” she shouts. “Miller wins again!”

This strikes Miller as a weird thing to shout at your boyfriend, but whatever—Bellamy’s laughing too, and Clarke’s been at every quidditch match he’s played in since he was seven years old. Winning a game is just about the only excuse they ever use to hug each other; he’s not going to overthink it.

And then, when Clarke’s dislodged herself, Miller sees him: Monty. He’s flushed and grinning, running across the pitch, and Miller takes off for him before he even registers the motion.

When they collide, the force of Monty’s run practically bowls Miller over. But he manages to catch his hands around Monty’s thighs and swing him—however awkwardly—around in a dizzying circle.

“You won!” Monty laughs into Miller’s shoulder.

“Of course,” says Miller, like it wasn’t of the closest games he’s played in his life. “Did you watch the whole thing?”

“As much as I could stand. No offense Nate, like you’re great and all, but it’s just _so boring_.”

Miller sets him down with a chuckle. “Fair enough.”

“So,” says Monty, looping his arms around Miller’s neck. “I have good news and bad news.”

“Bad news first.”

“Jasper’s pissed about the loss, and they basically lost because you were too awesome. So as his best friend, I probably need to avoid you in public for a little while as a display of solidarity. Which is stupid, because sports are stupid, but those are the best friend rules.”

Miller nods; weirdly, that makes sense to him. “Yeah, I get that. You’re also my boyfriend, though. Aren’t there boyfriend rules?”

Monty grins. “That’s the good news. Meet me on the fourth floor by the statue of the dragon tonight after you’re done celebrating with Clarke. I found a new passage to explore.”

“Monty.”

“Nothing dangerous, I promise. Just...secluded.”

Miller tugs him closer.  “I like the way you think.”

Monty grins against his neck.

“Of course you do.”

**Author's Note:**

> [leralynne](http://leralynne.tumblr.com) on tumblr!


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